i can make the bad guys good for the weekend
by breaddalton
Summary: desperate times call for desperate measures. skye's living in her van and maybe occasionally steals bags from the baggage claim to sell its contents. except, this time, she picks up the bag of one international spy, grant ward. (au before skye gets tracked down by shield) rated t for light cursing.
1. Chapter 1

this is based off of an au idea. i could probably name this as canon divergence, but yeah, who knows really? for now, she's just hacker skye living in her van, trying to make ends meet by doing sorta-illegal things, and grant ward is just a spy living in los angeles.

also generic names are hard when my mind kept accidentally almost naming him john peterson, or john philips.

* * *

Six bucks for parking.

Twenty bucks for gas.

Three bucks for a neck pillow.

Skye pulled the pillow down around her neck and walked into the gate at the arrivals floor of the airport. Smacking on gum with a bag thrown over her shoulder, she made quick work of walking down to the baggage claim carousels that had just started rolling out bags. Watching as the people next to her search for their luggage, she let her eyes glance over as well so as to not arouse suspicion.

She didn't do this often.

Okay, she did this semi-often.

Sometimes the freelance jobs and the side jobs weren't enough to pay for the gas for the van or her steady intake of breakfast, lunch, and dinner from the local fast food dollar menus. And those sometimes were when she would make a trip down to the airport and try and score something she could pawn off for more cash. Was it noble? Was it honorable? Hell no. But desperate times sure as hell called for desperate measures. Besides, no harm in losing a few shirts and cans of hair spray.

Most of the time it was just a bunch of clothes, at this point she hoped the generic bags she pulled belonged to women so she could score some extra clothes as well since the nights were starting to get a little cold.

Leaning against the metal railing, she watched as the carousel turned four times and the remaining dozen or so bags continued to make their way around, untouched. Eyes focused on a black suitcase that looked like it could belong to anyone, and looked large enough to hold something important, she stepped forward and yanked the bag up as it came back around to her, and fuck it was heavy. No one eyed her as she faked a yawn and slipped on some sunglasses and made her way towards the parking lot.

As she passed the double glass doors of the parking level, she checked her watch. Another forty minutes before she was out another two dollars in parking. Opening the door and throwing the impossibly hefty suitcase into the back, she hopped into the drivers seat and made out of the parking complex like a bat out of hell.

It wasn't until she pulled up in the alleyway behind her favorite cafe that she was able to crawl back into the back end of her van and lay the suitcase down on its back, hoping to god it didn't have a body inside.

Fingers crossed, she hoped for clothes, or jackets, or maybe some electronics she could use. As she pulled the flap of the top part of the suitcase she was starting to wish she had picked a different bag.

"Holy shit."

She stared down at three neatly packed handguns and what seemed to be a disassembled rifle underneath. A box coated in brushed metal sat next to the guns laid out in foam. Staring at the display in front of her, she wasn't sure if she should just leave the suitcase in a trashcan and hope for the best, or call the police because she was sure she had just thwarted a terrorist scheme. Gently, she lifted the box and unclasped the lock. She cursed again as she looked at six tightly packed black orbs that had something that looked distinctly like a grenade pin. Closing it quickly, she put it back in the same spot she had found it.

Unzipping the top flap, because at this point why not see what else was in store for her, she found two separate compartments. One filled with ammunition, the other with three pairs of pants with matching shirts (matching was a general term since it was all black) along with some rolled up boxer briefs and a thin comb. Underneath the shirts and pants was a plastic bag with a stack of cash and three international passports and two IDs. Ok so, she definitely screwed up with this one.

Backing up, her mind ran at a mile a minute.

What the fuck was she supposed to do?

Some crazy murderer was probably searching for his stolen baggage, and would probably kill her if he found her with the evidence. She always knew there was insane fucking people out there, but this was seriously crazy.

The thought of attempting to sell any of this was laughable. She wouldn't know the first place to go, and this would only attract unwanted attention. She wasn't about to throw live grenades into the trash, but she did not want to keep this suitcase in her van any longer that it needed to be. Was this karma for those previous scores that landed her with an extra hundred dollars in her pocket?

Staring back at the plastic bag of identity theft, opening the bag tentatively. Taking out the cash, she stuffed it in her pocket, not too proud to pocket what looked like two thousand dollars. Pulling out the first passport, Russian by the look of it, she flipped through it. A few stamps, likely fake, and at the end, a laminated photo and name printed in Russian. The photo was of a man who definitely looked like he had some killer (good) looks. Black hair, square jaw, and something of a grimace, though he looked like he was a man who had mastered the arrogant smirk.

"Hello Mr. Terrorist," she greeted. "Well, if this all goes to shit, there's still a future in modeling for you." The Spanish and French passport followed suit, as did the two American IDs, one naming him John Richards and the other Stanley Anderson. "You don't look like a Stan," she said, as she stuffed the ID back into the bag and zipped it up before tucking it under the clothes.

Before she zipped up the compartment (completely choosing to ignore the ammunition section), she reached back into the plastic bag and yanked out the Stanley Anderson from Michigan ID and pocketed it along side the cash. "Something to remember you by."

Zipping up the suitcase, she ran her hands over it searching for some kind of tag. Suitcases with this kind of heat had to have identification. All she could find was the standard baggage tag, which held a thick barcode and some long string of numbers along with the label of FROM CDG TO LAX. Pulling out her laptop, she searched the long string of numbers and ran through the Paris to Los Angeles passengers for the day before she found a corresponding name and flight.

"Hello, Daniel Moreau. Apartment 3C." None of these names seemed to fit the dark-haired criminal that she kept in her pocket, but that wasn't the issue at hand. Some more searching got her a local address in Los Angeles, an apartment less than thirty minutes away.

Staring at the suitcase, she considered what she should do. She could leave the bag at the closest police station. Let them deal with the fake ids and the whole suitcase of weapons. She could leave it at the apartment, and possibly put people in danger by giving a bag of weapons back to someone who thought it was necessary to pack weapons on a trip to Paris in the first place. God, what if he was an assassin.

Or a spy.

Forcing her mind back into a realm of reality, she somehow ended up behind the wheel driving to the apartment complex. Parking across the street, she stared out from the passenger's window at the building. Apartment 3C. She sat there for the next hour waiting for something to happen, but as it turns out steak outs aren't as glamorous as she thought, and she woke up two hours later to the setting sun and absolute starvation.

Stomach growling and irritated at this stressful situation, Skye grabbed her keys and hopped out of the van in search of the taco truck she saw a block away.

The wafting smell of Mexican food taunted her as she stood in line behind a gaggle of people making the largest order in the world. As they finally started to make their way away from the window at the food truck, Skye stepped up and ordered herself two carne asada burritos and a large horchata before adding a third pork and chicken burrito for good measure. If Mr. Possible-Murderer was paying, she might as well eat well.

Reaching in her pocket, she felt for one bill out of the stack, trying not to take the whole stack out for caution of who might see. Nearly tearing it in two, she yanked it out of her pocket and heard the clack of something plastic against the ground. Shit.

Slapping the hundred down on the counter, she muttered a 'keep the change' before leaning down to reach for Stan Anderson from Michigan.

"Wow, big spender," someone said from behind her.

Turning around, she froze in her steps, staring up at 6'2", black hair, brown eyes, square jaw Stan Anderson/John Richards/Daniel Moreau in one of his signature black shirt/black pants combo (she could imagine it was with those matching slate grey boxer briefs). And, yup, there was that practiced arrogant smirk.

"I think you might have something of mine."

Well wasn't that the understatement of a century.

* * *

obviously this could definitely be continued, but i need to think up something for this before i can actually continue this. for now live on wondering how hard ward was judging her for getting three burritos and stealing his bag from the airport while skye considers kneeing him in the groin and making a run for her van leaving behind her dinner.

feedback and comments are welcome!

follow me on tumblr (exsanguinate) for questions


	2. Chapter 2

**I couldn't resist adding to this series. It might end up being a bunch of little fics of Grant Ward _probably_ not being a Hydra agent, and Skye being his live-in hacker girlfriend who _might_ never join SHIELD. WHO KNOWS. Enjoy!**

**also sorry if you guys are tired of getting beaten to death with taylor swift lyrics. i swear to god the next fic will be something else.**

* * *

When Skye had been looking at the pictures of Stan Anderson from Michigan, she had thought to herself that he didn't _look_ like a murderer. Not that murderers had a type, but that good-little-boy look was oozing out past the grimace that he pasted on for his photo.

Now, staring up at a towering man in black, she was definitely ready to eat her own words.

"I think you might have something of mine?" he reiterated, this time as a question.

She imagined that she had quite the deer-in-the-headlights look, but even with the fear she had coursing through her, she was a little annoyed at the touch of amusement in Stan Anderson from Michigan's face. She had no idea how long he had been standing behind her, or what he had seen.

It was very possible he hadn't seen her pick up his ID. It was possible he just walked up.

A less flustered, less hungry, smarter Skye would be quick on her feet. She would find a way out of this. But in the heat of the moment, she replied to him with her first instinct (regrettably). "¿Qué? No hablo español, señor," she managed, with a passable Mexican accent. God, she hoped the taco truck guy wasn't listening.

To her further frustration, Stan seemed to completely give up at holding back his amused smirk, putting his hands on his hips as if he was preparing to scold her. "No problemo, señorita. Hablo español también. Creo que tiene algo que me pertenece. ¿Una maleta, tal vez?"

Frozen in her place, her memory was bringing up the Spanish passport from the stack of fake IDs and she was mentally kicking herself for choosing the one language that 80% of the people in Los Angeles could speak. Her limited Spanish knowledge managed to distinguish _maleta_ as suitcase. Fuck.

He seemed as cool as cucumber, while her eyes darted around for a getaway. There were enough people around that she doubted he would do anything like 'cross her off' but she wasn't about to take any chances. Briefly, she lamented the fact that she was about to be short a hundred bucks and three burritos as she heard the man behind her call her order out.

Stan looked up, distracted for a second. She took her chance.

Closing her hand into a fist, she used all of the force she had into landing a punch hard into his abdomen, a literal low-blow. Too bad all she hit was something akin to reinforced steel. Jesus Christ, was he like this all over?

It barely seemed to phase him, despite the way he flinched in surprise. Not giving him time to recover, she sent a sharp kick to his shin given the fact that he might be too tall for a successful knee in the groin. That send him groaning, shooting her a look of surprise in the process.

The look she shot back as she bolted in the direction of her van said something like, "Yeah, fuck you. I'm scrappy _and_ I know Spanish, Stan."

Running was something she was very good at. Especially when it came in the case of running for her life from possible murderers not-from-Michigan. Pulling out the keys in her pocket as she raced towards her van, looking behind her to see him crossing the distance without much effort. Though his face was unreadable, she guessed it wasn't the same smirk.

Reaching the back of her van, she unlocked the back doors and leapt in, slamming them behind her. Immobilized by the massive suitcase in her way, she unzipped it quickly as she heard the loud "Hey!" outside the van doors and yanked out the first gun she got her hands on. She'd held a gun only once in her life, it was horrible and she could barely work it. But maybe, in this case, her survival instincts would kick in and she could throw it at his face and knock him out.

Before she could do anything else the doors were yanked wide open and she pointed the gun at Stan. He wasn't even out of breath, but he definitely didn't look amused anymore. He put his hands up as she trained the gun at him, his eyes jumping from her face to the suitcase at the bottom of her feet. "I guess, I was right."

Somehow the smugness was still there, despite his scowl.

Upset that she wasn't being taken seriously, she spat questions at his face without really thinking. "Are you some kind of terrorist? A murderer? Assassin? Spy? Who the hell smuggles weapons like this on a plane?"

"I'm not a terrorist, calm down. Put down the gun. Let me explain." He reached for the gun. Skye started, pulling back the hammer of the pistol like she had seen on TV. His hand jumped back in surrender. A small sense of satisfaction that she'd caused the jolly green giant made of steel to react in some way other than amusement was enough to give her the confidence to edge out of the van, pushing him back with the weapon.

Stepping out of the van, she squared her shoulders and frowned gesturing to the bag with a nod of her head. "If you're just the average guy, why are you carrying around enough grenades to level the airport? Why do you have all those IDs and cash? I bet your name isn't even Stan." The last sentence sounded childishly spiteful even to her, but she wasn't about to backpedal.

"My name is not Stan. And I never said I was the average guy." His tone was meant to sound menacing and it worked, he creatively managed to avoid her other questions.

Skye swallowed hard, holding the gun tightly as she felt her palms sweat in anticipation. "What so you're some kind of secret agent?" Another childish notion. She was terrible at holding people at gunpoint. As she watched him adjust his stance, she heard the crinkling of plastic and her eyes traveled to his wrist where a heavy bag of something was dangling from his arm. Were those... her burritos?

What kind of crazed person was he?

"Not necessarily." His hands moved to reach for something and she jumped back holding the gun to him, her hands not all together steady. "Easy, easy. I am reaching for my proof." That gave her pause, and it might have been the best moment for him to disarm her, but he continued to reach in his back pocket and pull out something that looked like a badge.

Fuck.

Fight or flight kicked in over time.

Terrorists were bad, government was worse.

As he flashed the badge, she saw the metal reflect the shadow of an insignia against the street lights. Taking a step forward to read it, she was suddenly pulled in with his free hand and in a matter of seconds he had yanked the gun out of her hands and into his. She'd barely managed a yelp of protest before she was completely defenseless. Well, now he had the burritos, the gun, and her life in his hands.

Except he checked the chamber of the gun and the magazine, without giving her much pause. Right. They had been empty. The sad fact that they had just had a stand off based on an empty threat was not lost on her. Before she could say anything her stomach growled out in hunger and he brought his attention back to her. Backing up, she looked around for some sort of other weapon to defend herself. The pepper spray on her keys was in the car, the rest of the weapons were useless, and unless he was suddenly impossibly sluggish, she definitely didn't have time to grab the crowbar jammed under the driver's seat.

"Hey, easy," he read her expression immediately. "Look, here, take these. You left them at the stand." He offered her the bag of burritos she had ordered in her voracious hunger. But she looked back at the suitcase in the van, uncertain of what to do. She wasn't about to trade some lives for Mexican food and a quick getaway.

"Who are you? What are you doing with these weapons? Are you with the Feds? Because this does not look like regulation stuff." Not that she really knew anything about what was regulation, but she could pretend like she did.

Sighing, he dropped the bag at her feet and slipped the gun into the back of his pants. "I'm a government agent. I work for S.H.I.E.L.D. My name's not Stan Anderson. It's Grant Ward." Gesturing to the suitcase in her van, "I was coming back from a mission. Got caught up getting off the plane and it seems like you capitalized on that opportunity."

Staring back at him in disbelief, she looked from him to the suitcase. "Let me see your badge." The badge that he had been holding had somehow magically returned to his pocket in the midst of him disarming her. He handed it over to her without hesitation. Her hunger gnawed at her, but she could not believe she had actually stumbled upon a legitimate spy. This took precedence over burritos.

Opening the badge, she studied the identification. Grant Ward. Specialist. S.H.I.E.L.D.

She'd heard of the operation before, through the Rising Tide, but how she managed to actually meet an agent was either a stroke of the worst luck ever, or some kind of cruel twist of fate.

"Believe me?" he asked. She looked up and, once again, he was closer to her looking down at her with an amused smirk. Yeah, he looked like a Grant Ward.

"No," she said stubbornly. Even if she did. Now it was about pride.

He frowned, an exasperated sigh escaped his lips. She decided she liked seeing him frustrated. "Okay. What can I do to convince you I'm not a terrorist or some kind of mass murderer? I brought back your burritos, what kind of terrorist chases a crazy girl who just assaulted him with the food she ordered?"

"You forgot my horchata," she retorted, haughtily.

"Yeah well, I wasn't about to grab that when you went full sprint on me. Hell, I didn't even have time to grab you any sauces."

If he was trying to get into her good graces, it was working painfully well. The smell of the burritos on the ground wafted up to her nose, as she crossed her arms. "Well, I need some kind of assurance you aren't going to go throw these grenades at a playground or something."

It didn't make much sense to her, why she was perpetuating this conversation. She already had more than enough proof to satisfy he was real threat to anyone, and even believed him when he said he was a secret agent. Perhaps some part of her knew that after she gave back his suitcase and picked up the bag of food, they would go their separate ways. And that disappointed her, maybe even upset her.

"What kind of assurance? I already knew you were camping out in front of my apartment for the better half of the afternoon. Even let you take that cat nap."

She tried not to look shocked at his observational skills.

"You don't exactly blend in with this van."

"Hey, watch what you say about my van!"

His eyebrows raised in surprise to her quick retort. "I'm just saying. It sticks out, and I notice these things." She didn't reply. He was right, this was a nicer neighborhood and her van did not look like it belonged. Especially not to someone who lived there. "Can I get my stuff back?" he asked, his voice interrupting her thoughts.

The question snapped her back into reality. The fairy tale (however twisted) was over. Nodding slightly, she leaned over and opened the other door to let him grab his suitcase. She bent down to pick up the bag of food and set it on the edge of the van. Pulling the stack of cash from her pocket, she figured the right thing was to return everything she'd stolen, even if part of her wanted so badly to keep it. She was running on fumes as it was.

"Do you live in here?"

Biting her lip, she fought to keep the shame from reaching her face. "No." A pause. "Yes."

Setting the suitcase down on the ground, he eyed her setup before looking down at the wad of cash in her hand. Without hesitation, he pushed it back towards her. "Call it a finder's fee."

Skye did her best of trying to deny it, but he persisted in pushing the money back at her until she pocketed it. Feeling the hard plastic of Stanley Anderson next to the cash, she pulled that out. "You might want this back."

Grant smiled (it does not make her stomach flip, nope, not at all), shaking his head, "I think you thoroughly blew that cover for me. Keep it or throw it away."

Nodding in response, she put it back into her pocket. She'd throw it away later. Or not. Something to remember you by.

Backing up a little from his close proximity, she shut one of the doors and pulled the bag of burritos out from the van before shutting the other door. "Uh... I guess that's that. I should probably go."

Grant looked like he was inclined to agree, but stopped. "What's your name?"

"Skye." No harm in telling him.

He frowned a little, like he was going to ask for a 'real name'.

"Just Skye."

The frown dissipated to one of those smiles again and her stomach did that flip that she could be assured was because of long term starvation. "Okay, Skye." It sounded sinfully good on his lips. Looking at the corner of the street and back at his apartment, he nodded at her. "I don't know what your plans are, but I assume you might want a replacement horchata? I haven't eaten yet and I just got off a sixteen hour flight. Want to join me?"

Hesitating, Skye looked from her van to Grant to the food cart by the corner of the street. The smart choice would be to say no and drive back to her spot behind the café in the alley. That is what the smart Skye would do.

But the smart Skye was lonely, and cold, and hungry. She wasn't getting offers of pseudo-dates from tall, dark, and handsome spies. Biting her lip, she took one last look at her van before she decided smart Skye could take the night off and enjoy some Mexican food while dumb Skye ate it with Grant Ward.

Grant looked back at her expectantly before his face broke into a grin at her nod. "Good, because the smell of those burritos is killing me."

* * *

**Who wants to go eat burritos like right now? (Can you tell that I really do?)**

**Anyways, obviously keeping this open ended. Shout outs if you guys want more, I have some more ideas swirling but nothing really substantial. This kind of snowballed into something crazy after too much time thinking in the shower.**

**feedback and comments are welcome!**


	3. Chapter 3

This sort of sets some groundwork for future parts of this series and is mostly fluffy. It implies some things about Ward's past that should give you an idea of who he is. I may supplement this with a mini-chapter that goes into his POV to give a little more clarity to his actions. Anyways, thanks for the support on the previous two parts of this series. It was never suppose to be anything more than a one-shot, but now the ideas are bouncing off the walls.

* * *

This is the last time, Skye told herself.

It'd been almost three weeks and somehow her blue van found itself parked across from the brick apartment building where one super secret spy Grant Ward lived. Again.

She was here for the food, she told herself.

But her eyes wandered from the food truck to the apartment building, searching for some sign of life. It had been almost three weeks since she and Grant had sat at the fold-out tables in front of the food truck and shared some chips while eating dinner together, after she had tried to rob him. It wasn't the most conventional of relationships, in fact it wasn't a relationship at all. And he probably wasn't being serious when he told her he'd see her around sometime given that he had most likely moved out of his apartment after she blew his cover.

Still, she somehow wandered back to the neighborhood in search of something that she was sure wasn't there anymore.

Thanking Ricardo, she grabbed the bag of burritos and a stack of sauces and her drink before walking back to her van. She'd been there enough times for the guy to know her order and her name. Of course it might have been because the first time she visited the food truck had been when she not only dropped a seventy dollar tip, but also assaulted another regular before running off. The man never failed to smirk just a little when he saw her approach, as if he was expecting something out of character to happen.

Despite the limited time they spent together, Grant Ward had occupied her thoughts more in the past few weeks than she would be willing to admit. Taking a front seat in watching SHIELD's movements, it became less about finding Grant and more about the organization. Unwrapping her dinner she took a bite into the steaming burrito, while typing with the other hand reading redacted documents. Scarfing down the first two burritos, she wrapped up the last one and stepped out of the back of her van to throw away the trash that had accumulated during the day.

The sun was slipping down the horizon. Part of her considered staying on the street, spending the night sleeping on the open street rather than the alley. Even if she was still in the same van, it gave her some kind of sense of security. She didn't form attachments easily anymore, she'd had to learn how to sever that part of her, but something about this place gave her a sense of hope. Throwing her trash away, she turned on her heel and started back towards her van until something stopped her in her tracks.

A familiar figure, (tall, dark, and handsome) was leaning against her van, haloed by the streetlights that had flickered on in the evening. "We have to stop meeting like this."

She wished she could say she wasn't surprised. That she would have been fine if she never saw him again.

But everything kind of spoke to the opposite of that.

"And here I thought your cover was blown and you moved away."

"And leave Ricardo?" His retort was instant, with a hint of that arrogant smirk, but something was different. His breathing hitched and as she walked closer towards him, she realized he was clutching at his side.

"Wait - are you hurt?"

He grimaced, and shook his head, but he looked worse for wear. "I'm fine. Have you been here long?"

She shook her head, searching him for injuries hidden by his thick jacket. Part of her shivered from the cold, while the other was irrationally irritated that he was casually leaning against her van when he was clearly hurt. What was secret spy hiding? She hadn't even heard him approach, and yet now he seemed plastered to the van. "Do you need help?"

Pause. He didn't answer for a second, his eyes reading her like a book, formulating some kind of reply. "You look cold. Do you want to come inside?" He gestured with his head to his apartment.

If it was anyone else, if he hadn't looked like he was in pain, she would have kicked him in the shin again for suggesting something like this. Approaching him, she reached for his face that had been shadowed from backlight. It had bruises on it. Grant flinched a little at her touch, but her finger caressed the angle of his jaw as she checked his face and he seemed to unbristle. And maybe she shouldn't have nodded so quickly to a man who was virtually a stranger in agreeing to go into his apartment with him, but she had. He didn't ask for her help as he lifted off of the van to walk back to the apartment building, but she watched him clench his jaw in pain.

Reaching for the bag he held at his shoulders, she offered to alleviate the weight from his luggage. Letting go of it willingly, he mumbled a thanks, as they walked side by side across the street. He was definitely limping a little, but without the weight of the bag he seemed to be able to keep on his facade. Reaching into his pocket for his key, he ascended the three stone steps to his apartment complex. When they reached his door after a quick elevator ride up to the fourth floor, he made quick work of unlocking the door and pushing himself inward. His breath had labored a little but she hadn't mentioned the topic of his wounds.

Setting his bag down in the dark room, Grant flipped on the light as he lead her into his apartment and shut the door behind them. It was pretty much what she expected given the glimpse into his luggage the last time. Militantly clean with nothing on the exposed brick walls except a large clock. The furniture was accented in brushed metal and looked like it was put together an hour before they had walked in. It barely looked lived in.

"Cozy."

He smirked, walking to the kitchen counter where there was a bottle of whiskey and a set of heavy bottom glasses set out. He lifted the bottle to her and she nodded without thinking. This was going downhill. She didn't come up to get a drink or admire his painfully minimalist decor. Walking over to the window, she looked down and saw her own van parked in perfect view. She could admit it looked a little suspicious. But right now she was the one who felt out of place. She'd only meant to help him to his door.

Sitting down at the couch, she looked around. No photos, nothing that looked even remotely personal. If she hadn't seen him leave the building she would have thought that this was little more than a model apartment shown to potential apartment hunters. Still the heater was running and she was no longer shivering; that was a plus. Grant limped over with the two glasses in hand and the bottle in tow before sitting down at the couch adjacent to her.

"How long were you parked out there?"

The question broke the awkward silence between them as she took the glass he offered her. Hesitating, she stared at the glass wondering if she should be taking drinks from this semi-stranger. Bringing it to her lips, she pretended to sip before putting the glass back down on the table. He didn't seem to notice as he downed his glass in one shot.

"Not long. I come by every so often," she admitted, though she had no idea when she decided to be honest with him. "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"Work." It sounded matter-of-fact, as he struggled to slip off his jacket slowly.

"That's it," Skye decided, standing up and walking over to his kitchen. Grant twisted around to see where she was going as she opened up cabinets in his kitchen one by one.

"Wait, what the hell are you doing, Skye?"

Shooting a glare back, she pointed at him and shook his head when he went to stand up. "No. Sit down, mister. You barely limped back here. Clearly, you're hurt. I'm not going to play this game of watching you drink away your pain. Super spy has to have a first aid kit somewhere right?" The cabinets were, unsurprisingly, well organized with a sad supply of cutlery and plates. No first aid kit.

She heard a deep sigh come from Grant, though he didn't oppose her rifling through his apartment. "It's in the bathroom, under the sink."

He made no move to direct her in any direction, so she made a quick move towards the only hallway in the apartment and opened the door at the end of it. His bedroom. Her eyes glanced over it quickly, more catalogue than home. She couldn't say she expected different, but it was devoid of any sort of indication that a human actually lived here. Turning to his bathroom, she crouched down and pulled out a flat white box that looked like the rest of the apartment, completely unused. Shutting off the light and closing the door, she walked back into the living room where Grant was throwing back the fingers of whiskey he had poured for her.

"Hey, I was going to drink that."

"Yeah, that's why you pretended to sip it when I gave it to you," he shot back sardonically. He looked at her, again with infuriating amusement flickering behind his eyes. "Do I look like I'm going to drug you?"

She scoffed. "No one ever looks like they're going to drug you. But then they do. Better safe than sorry. I barely know you."

"You know more about me than most people do." He laughed under his breath, but it sounded like a sad fact rather than a joke.

Pushing the glasses back, she sat down on the table top and unsealed the kit. Grant had been leaning forward, but backed up at the sight of her. Skye decided that tough love was going to have to be the way to get this guy to respond to her help. Unwrapping a thick q-tip soaked in iodine, she reached for his chin and tilted his head back. He frowned as if ready to push her away but she glared him down enough that he didn't act on his feelings. He looked stuck between telling her he was fine and relieved that someone cared.

Tapping the q-tip gently against the cut on his cheekbones, he made no indication of whether or not it hurt. Bruised faces and cuts from fights were something she was familiar with, sometimes the smallest scars hurt the most, but she knew that worse things hid under his surface. Specifically around his ribs that he had been clutching at since she'd seen him. Blotting the cut, she compromised when he shook his head to a band-aid.

"Thanks," he said, as if that was it.

"Yeah, right. Now, take off your shirt."

He paused, a smile breaking out on his face. "Excuse me?"

The blush she didn't want to creep up felt hot on her face. But she wasn't about to back down. Tough love. "You heard me. I'm not blind. I saw the way you were holding your ribs. You probably bruised them or something."

"Observant, you'd make a good spy." He tried to joke, she recognized it as avoidance.

"Yeah, and live like a robot like you? No thanks. Now, strip."

Grant seemed actually a little surprised that she had persisted. Instead of fighting her again, she heard a small groan of annoyance before pulling up his shirt over his head.

Skye realized she might have bitten off more than she could chew. Figuratively speaking, of course.

Not only was his torso bruised, but she did not miss the fact of just how nice this would look if the bruises weren't there. No wonder he felt like steel when she punched him, he basically was. Swallowing hard, she looked back up to his face, closing her mouth after realizing her jaw might have actually dropped open at the sight of his dishabille. "Lean back," she ordered, wishing it didn't sound sexual in any way. Or rather, wishing her mind wasn't permanently in the gutter and hoping his wasn't either.

The angle was awkward, she had to lean down to meet and examine his ribs, tentatively touching his chest with her hand to feel for... something. She had absolutely no medical training, and was honestly not sure what to even look for. There weren't any cuts, no open wounds, just a lot of internal bleeding. She was glad that she wasn't staring at him in his square-jawed face any more because the creeping blush warming her face was obvious even to her. His skin was deliciously warm, and as she ran her fingers across his ribs lightly, she could have sworn she felt a shiver from him.

The bruising was purple and had been there for a while. Like the wound on his face, it seemed to have been like this for a while. "Have you gotten this looked at already?"

"Yes."

Her head shot up at Grant, "What?" He looked down at her, his pupils blown, eyes dark as he watched her. Backing up away from his chest, she frowned, looking at him accusingly. "If you have been looked at why did you make it seem like you hadn't?"

A laugh came from him, more a bark, he sat back up and raised his hands defensively. "You are the one who went through my stuff insisting on a first-aid kit. You're the one who made me strip. You are the one who glared me down and told me you didn't want to watch me drink my pain away."

Well, he was right about that.

"I thought. I thought you had been hurt."

"I'm fine. I told you. Work. I got injured on a mission, I was given a few days off." He reached around her for one of the glasses, closing proximity between them so quickly that it startled her. He pointed to the bottle of whiskey behind her, unable to reach further, he already nearly wrapped himself around her. Skye scoffed, leaning back and grabbing the bottle and her own glass. Pouring a shot into her glass, she poured him the same.

"Sorry I was gone for so long," Grant said, after sipping from his glass. The amber liquid was warming, despite the bite. She wasn't sure if it was the whiskey or his apology that soothed her.

Shaking her head, she laughed a little. "You don't have to apologize. You're a spy."

"I thought I was a robot."

"Cute," she said. It was meant to sound condescending, but it turned into flattery. "Do you even live here? This looks like an Ikea show room."

Shrugging, he looked around, as if to confirm her suspicions. "I guess it could look a little more welcoming. I don't come back often. I just sometimes need a place to stay that isn't a cot."

Skye nodded. They all needed their own space. Hers was unfortunately on the same level as a cot. The thought of sleeping in her van wasn't something she was ashamed of any more, it was her home, but she did sometimes wish for a full bed, her own bathroom, and maybe a kitchen where she could brew her coffee (cooking wasn't her forte). "What was your mission?" she asked, but then quickly added, "Actually, don't tell me if it's one of those 'if I told you, I'd have to kill you' cases."

Grant laughed heartily, taking another sip from his whiskey. "It's hard to explain. We'll call it an acquisition mission gone wrong."

"Not sure I would want to acquire something that leaves me like this," she gestured to him. He was still definitely half naked in front of her, and at her blush he threw down the rest of his drink and grabbed his shirt as he stood up from the couch. Skye followed suit, looking around at the apartment wondering when he was going to show her out. He disappeared into his bedroom. She gulped down her drink and uncapped the bottle to take another swig.

One for the road.

Grant walked back out into the room where they were in a fresh shirt. He still limped a little, but she took comfort in that he had been looked at by a professional. "So how long are you staying?" she tried not to sound so curious, but she hoped that he might be around. If only just so she knew he was in town.

"Probably a week. They're trying to figure out a new way of approaching the asset, so I have the time to recuperate a little."

"And then, it's off to Paris?"

"Or Prague, or Moscow," he responded casually. She smiled, though she felt a twinge of jealousy at his jet set lifestyle. Silence filled the beat of pause after his comment. Looking around at his own apartment, he chuckled lightly as he changed the topic. "Yeah, it's not the coziest place."

"It's fine. It just needs... a personal touch. You don't have any pictures. I feel like you could walk out the door now and I could move in and it'd just be a furnished apartment."

"You could do that."

Skye stopped in her tracks, looking at him in surprise. "What?"

"If you needed a place to stay." He didn't seem fazed by his own offer like she was. Maybe he never learned proper the social skills.

"I was joking. You realize we barely know one another."

"I'm not saying you move in and take up my rent. I am just saying if you needed a place to sleep. I have a couch." Motioning out the window, "It's cold tonight and I figured it was a nice gesture in return for helping me out."

She gaped at him, unsure of what exactly was going on. "You know nothing about me. What if I'm a murderer? What if I'm insane and I slit your throat at night? Plus I barely know you, the same could be said vice versa."

Sighing, Grant looked frustrated, running a hand through his hair and down his neck as if he was tired of this conversation. Skye had to fight not to roll her eyes. This wasn't the kind of conversation you just sprung on someone. Especially not someone you barely knew. They'd spent less than a day together in total, and now he was asking her to sleep on the couch? "You're not a murderer. Or else you would have kept my guns for yourself. You're not insane, and I'd like to see you try to slit my throat. You already know that I'm an agent for SHIELD. I'll tell you anything else you want to know." A bold offer, but she would barely know where to start. "You live in your van, and I'm not judging you for it, but I figured you might want a bed or something for the night."

Well, he had thought this through. She considered being stubborn. Driving away from him and his insane offer. How was he not more cautious of her?

He continued to fill the silence with his own logic. "Listen, I've been left out on my own before. There was a time when I would have done anything for a shower and a nice place to sleep. I'm just trying to be helpful. If you don't trust me, you don't have to accept."

Skye's interest was piqued. She tried to read what he meant by his words, but as easily as the wall came down in their conversation, it had gone back up. Biting her lip, she hugged herself, looking from the door to the couch. "Maybe just one night. And a shower would be nice." Normally she snuck into the local gym for one or went to her friend's house, it would be nice not to feel rushed. This wasn't weird, she told herself. At least this time she had her pepper spray with her. Though thinking back to those abs carved from marble, she doubted the pepper spray would keep a guy like him down for long. Not to mention the bruises that somehow he was able to stomach without so much as a whimper.

The corner of his lips turned up in a small smile. He almost seemed proud of his accomplishment. God please don't be a serial killer. The search for an Agent Grant Ward on SHIELD databases had indeed brought up a familiar face, but it required much more hacking to actually figure out who he was and what he did given all the redacted files.

"Let me go get you a pillow and some sheets," he said, turning around. He still felt like a stranger. A kind one, but there were layers of secrets behind arrogant smiles and honest words. "You can take a shower if you want, there is another towel in the cabinet," his voice was clear from the bedroom. He returned less than a minute later into the common area with a pillow and some light grey sheets. It was jarring and unfamiliar to see someone so accommodating and she almost bristled at it.

"I guess I am going to take a shower." She slipped into his room wondering what had just happened. Walking into the bathroom, she dead bolted the door before reaching into the cabinet for another towel. I wasn't until after she finished her long shower, had wrapped herself in his towel and smelled his shampoo in her clean hair that she realized she had nothing to wear. With her wet hair clinging to her shoulders, she unlocked the door to an empty bedroom. Opening the bedroom door, she saw Grant sitting at the a different couch, reading a book. He looked surprisingly serene given her mental image of him as a super spy.

"Grant?" He turned, seeming surprised by her voice. She watched his mouth form an O as he took in the fact that she was wet and wrapped in a towel standing at the doorway of his bedroom. "I left my clothes in my van."

He paused for a second, before sitting up and putting the book down. "Right. Here I have some shirts that should fit you." As if anything Grant Ward wore would be too small for her. The tshirt he handed her was black (surprise, surprise) and she was swimming in it. Pulling on her own pants, she hung her bra and shirt on the hook behind the door and found him washing the glasses that they had used. How domestic.

Surreal would have been one word to describe it as he motioned to the couch that had been set like a bed and looked so inviting to her suddenly. "There's another blanket in the closet if you get cold, but the heat is pretty so I think you'll be fine. I'm going to take a shower and go to bed, if you-"

Before he could continue, she interrupted, "Hey. Thanks. Not many people would let some girl who lives in a van and steals their stuff into their apartment, much less let them sleep in their home."

He looked as if he was about to confess something. But instead, he smiled. She'd settle for a Grant Ward smile that wasn't arrogant or bemused. "You're not just some girl. Plus, you gave it all back." Walking towards the bedroom, he awkwardly waved at her, bringing a smile to her lips. "Night."

It was a few hours later, when Skye had crawled into bed after listening to the shower run and the sound of cabinets being opened the closed that she realized out of all of the foster homes, the couches, the vans, the beds she slept in, she knew when to be scared, when she should be ready to bolt. But somehow, wrapped up in his clothes and his sheets, in his apartment on his couch, she felt safer than she had in a while.

* * *

Like I said, if it feels a little out of character for Ward, stick around because the next chapter will probably be a recount of this from his point of view. Or at the very least a little insight into his actions. I'm trying to fit this into the storyline in the show, but I might just do total canon divergence LOL. Anyways, feedback and comments are always welcome, they are the fuel for more half naked Ward in the future (ha, as if I need encouragement to sexually objectify him a little).


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